


The Fine Game of Nil

by sugarboat



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M, Male Solo, Masochism, Masturbation, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possession, Pre-Betrayal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 22:36:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6773071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever the caring and generous friend, Bill offers to give Ford a mental break while he's working on their dimension-bridging portal. Things get heated, pretty much literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fine Game of Nil

Bill was beginning to suspect that he’d been duped. A flashlight clamped between his host’s teeth prevented the curses building in his throat from being released, though every now and then his lips would move around the metal cylinder, forming the phantom words. These words were not usually in any language humans could recreate, which only served to frustrate him more as the clumsy flesh humans deigned to call a mouth warped unsatisfactorily around the foreign phrases. 

It had been a long time since the demon had been in full control of a borrowed body. Sure, he’d been in Sixer’s body before, but those were more-or-less supervised brainstorming sessions. Possession wasn’t something he had to do often, since Ford was always eager – more than eager, champing at the bit! – to do whatever it was Bill had decided needed doing. He engaged in it mostly to tease himself, give himself a taste of what was to come. All that sloshing fluid and squelching organ business was good fun! Bill had assumed that when he _did_ get to take Ford’s body for a joyride it would actually be enjoyable. 

This was not the case. Bill accepted that he had different standards for entertainment than most of the sentient lifeforms in this dimension, but he was pretty sure no one could have fun in his current position. Said position was deep in the mechanical guts of a quantum tunneling engine, on hands and knees in a tiny, cramped crawlspace using tiny, delicate tools on tiny, frustrating consoles in nearly impossible to reach places. As if reacting to his negative thoughts, one of his useless fingers twitched and he lost hold of a tool, an exasperated groan leaving his throat as the thing clanged around on its way to the floor.

There were reasons he made other people do his work for him – besides not having a corporeal form for himself – and this was definitely one of them. Sixer should be the one confined and irritated, all scrunched up in this miniscule area and reaching around blindly for some _stupid_ wrench or whatever someone had made _way_ too small. And he had been before, back when Bill was blissfully unaware what the term ‘aching joints’ entailed. 

The demon wanted control, but he wasn’t one of those micromanagers; he would leave for days at a time, returning only when Ford had fallen asleep so they could play in the mindscape. The day to day minutiae of the physical world wasn’t something he was keen on following unless it was directly affecting him or his pet. Bill would keep an eye on everything – it was impossible not to – but didn’t find it worthwhile to intervene unless something was going seriously wrong. So up until this point, Ford and his buddy Fiddle-dick had done all the manual labor on the portal themselves.

Bill would have been perfectly content to keep things that way. While designing a dimension-bridging machine was exciting and fun, drawing up blueprints and slaving over equations, actually going about building the damn thing was decidedly not fun. As far as Bill was concerned, as soon as things switched into physical more than conceptual, he was out. Unfortunately, best-laid plans doing what they do, he’d been suckered into this bullshit.

He and Ford had a _connection_ – a real one, not the emotional garbage the human tried to keep bottled up inside himself. Thanks to their deal, Bill was more acquainted with Sixer’s general mental and physical wellbeing than usual. Honestly, it could be annoying, like a fly wedged between two bricks. Mostly unnoticeable but constantly just _there_ , and occasionally twitching and flailing around and causing them both discomfort. It was one of those squirming, writhing moments that had drug Bill’s attention away from the important things he’d been doing (he couldn’t remember them now, but _everything_ he did was important) to Ford’s physical dimension.

Bill had found the man mentally and physically exhausted, his poor mammalian brain practically short circuiting. A brief stretch of awareness showed that the rest of the house was empty, Glasses having gone off to wherever he went when he wasn’t helping Ford. His little buddy was in the same space Bill was now occupying for him, diligently tinkering away, eyes bleary and barely focused. This was clearly a delicate situation.

“HIYA SIXER! Working HARD or HARDLY WORKING, am I RIGHT?” Ford had visibly flinched, flashlight dropping out of his mouth to clatter on the metal floor. Apparently, the human hadn’t noticed Bill’s arrival until the piercing voice echoed through his mind. Man, he must’ve been really out of it.

“B-Bill! How long have- what are you doing here?” the man stuttered out, sounding exhausted. His hand groped around for the flashlight. 

“Just DROPPING BY to see how my FAVORITE GENIUS is doing!” Bill floated closer. “And if LOOKS are anything to go by, I’d say he’s about to DROP DEAD!” The demon laughed, but he did have a point. The circles under Ford’s eyes were so dark they resembled bruises, his untucked shirt was covered in wrinkles and smears of oil, and his hair was sticking up at strange angles. “I know they say don’t judge a BOOK by its COVER, but there’s a LIMIT, pal!”

It was clear that Ford wasn’t in the mood for the exuberant triangle’s mild ribbing, but he gave a half-hearted chuckled nonetheless. Leaving the flashlight where it lie, the human sat back and took his glasses off, rubbing at his eyes. 

“It’s been a long day, Bill.” 

“A long 34 hours, 42 minutes, and 25- no, 26 seconds, Sixer!” Sometimes it was amazing that Ford had survived as long as he had before he’d met Bill. “You’re only a COUPLE hours away from that STUNNING brain of yours going HAYWIRE! Which would be FUN to watch, but if you’re gonna start HALLUCINATING you shouldn’t do it in the middle of our work!” Ford looked embarrassed, and Bill had to fight to keep from rolling his eye. Sensitive, much? “I know you can’t HELP IT, Fordsy, it’s just biology! You know that too! So what the heck are you doing!” 

“I…” Was that an attempt at conversation, or was Sixer just sighing? “We’re on a tight time frame right now.” Ford was sounding dangerously condescending. The man tempted a glance up, looking away again when he saw the glare aimed his way. “I know, I need to sleep, I’m _exhausted_ , but I’m so close. I- we’re so close.”

If Bill possessed a heart to melt, it might have at least thawed a little at the man’s last statement, murmured more than spoken and heavy laden with unnamed emotion. As it was, he didn’t, but he felt slightly less agitated. After all, Ford was just doing what he thought he needed to do. And the man could be surprisingly stubborn when it came to building their portal – usually a trait Bill could appreciate, but there were times like this when it put everything in jeopardy.

“I’ll tell ya what, buddy,” Bill began, putting his arm around Ford’s shoulders. It was impossible to actually touch the man in this dimension – _for now_ – but habits were hard to break. “Why don’t I take over from HERE? Lemme slip into that SKIN SUIT of yours and YOU can take a little breather!”

An unidentifiable emotion displayed itself on Ford’s face, maybe a mix between incredibility and relief and fondness and embarrassment. He replaced his glasses, self-consciously running a hand through his hair. “You don’t need to do that, really! I’m nearly finished-”

This was taking too long; Bill technically already had Ford’s permission to enter his body whenever he wished. The demon shoved his way into Sixer’s body, knocking the human’s consciousness out of it in the process. He was nearly overwhelmed by the influx of physical sensations, most of which were unpleasant. Over the white noise background, he could hear Ford sputtering protests about his actions, though the words came through blurred at the edges. Bill waved a six-fingered hand dismissively.

“Sixer, I got this,” he said, voice sounding rougher. The inside of Ford’s mouth felt like he’d been swallowing cotton balls for the past year. “I know you INSIDE and OUT, LITERALLY! I KNOW when you need a break!” He could see that Ford still wanted to argue about it. “Hey, I’m just giving you a helping hand! It’s what partners – _friends_ – do, right?”

That was the ticket. Ford’s transparent arms uncrossed, and a shy smile came out. “You’re right, Bill.”

“Of COURSE I am! Don’t you worry that cute little head of yours! I’ll just finish up here LICKETY SPLIT and then we can skedaddle off to the MINDSCAPE for some well-deserved R and R!” They had shared a grin before Bill got to work. Ford had hovered in the background for a while, peering over his own borrowed shoulder before Bill had gotten irritated and shooed him off. No one helicopter-parented Bill Cipher!

And now Bill was stuck regretting his decision. He could feel the bones of Ford’s knees jamming together, pinching the delicate ligaments and cartilage between them. Shifting his weight from side to side wasn’t helping, either. At various points along his spine, the muscles were tensing and bunching together into painfully hard knocks, imbalances between his chest and back drawing his shoulders into a hunch every time he stopped paying attention to the body’s posture. It was a nightmare.

He just had to grit his teeth, and finish this last piece, and then he could slam this body onto a flat surface and escape to the mindscape. _Never again_ became the mantra running through his head. This was all charity got you, a stress and sleep induced migraine! Bill piloted his body around, pulling himself free of the delicate tangle of wires and metal and out into semi-fresh air. It felt like a vice was loosened around his chest, and he idly wondered if he was claustrophobic or something. 

Saving the thought for another time – or never, whichever – Bill pulled himself up to a standing position, practically wincing at the cacophony of crackling noises coming from all parts of Sixer’s body. Jeez, how long had the guy been in that position before Bill had come along? He rolled his neck from side to side, thinking about how much the human owed him for this, and walked over the main power generator. Halfway out of the room he had to pause as his vision suddenly split into doubles, eyes flickering as if they were rapidly crossing. Ford was really pushing his body this way, not just in terms of sleep deprivation, but also the chemical cocktail he’d poured into himself to keep awake and working.

Still, as annoying as it was that Ford would risk making idiot mistakes by fogging up his brain, Bill knew that he had at least another nine days before the man was in any real danger. Hell, Stanford probably knew that too, comforted himself with the thought every time standing brought a dizzying wave crashing over him. There was a phrase Ford could benefit from hearing, something about the Nile not just being a river.

The lights in the basement workshop flickered as the generator hummed to life. The strobing effect this caused did little and less to ease the headache throbbing at the base of his skull. Even so, Bill felt himself perk up when a quiet whirring noise joined the electric drone, signaling that at least something was going right. He stalked back over to the machine piece he had been working on, sickly yellow eyes glowing and searching for any possible complications. A distant rattling alerted him to one.

Oh, right, the wrench thing. When he hadn’t been able to easily lay a hand on it, he’d just left it in there, telling himself he’d get it later. Later had obviously come and gone, unheeded. Bill leveled a glare at the hunk of metal, blaming it for all his problems. He huffed and rolled his eyes, but that didn’t seem to accomplish anything. Accepting the finality of the situation, Bill dropped back down to a kneeling position, picking up the flashlight from where he’d – thankfully – left it near the opening. 

The flashlight turned on with a satisfying click, and he aimed it into the dark depths of the machine. Leaning forward, he braced Ford’s forearm against the metal exterior, craning his neck to see if he could spot the tool and- _oh_. Bill jerked his arm back in surprise, a searing sensation scattering up and down the nerve endings all along the expanse of skin that had touched the iron. There was a slight smell of burnt flesh in the air.

Anger welled up inside his chest, throbbing in time to the burning in his arm, the rapid beating of his heart. He shot to his feet, marching back to the generator and heatedly switching it off. Hot, stinging _pain_ was radiating from the wound in pulses. Bill brought his arm up, bending and twisting it to peer at the angry red splotch. It covered nearly the length of his forearm, and Ford wasn’t going to be super ecstatic about finding it.

Well, this was his fault, wasn’t it! Ford was the one that sleep-addled his own brain and then forced Bill to climb inside it. And who rolls their sleeves up when they’re working on science stuff! That was one of the first rules of 8th grade lab. _Sally didn’t wear long sleeves and now she doesn’t have to because her arms are melted puddles of human **trash**_. His internal tirade continued as he climbed the stairs, torn between wanting to stomp and not-wanting to alert Ford – wherever that nerd was hovering – to his current embarrassing predicament.

Bill jerked the cold water tap on and thrust his injured arm under the freezing stream. The pain seemed to recede quickly, but every time he pulled it out of the water the heat inside the wound would inexorably begin to climb again, hotter and hotter, crawling across his abused flesh like the jittery legs of tap-dancing spiders. After a few games of back and forth, Bill let out a frustrated growl and wrenched the tap off again, tromping into the living room and dropping bodily into Sixer’s favorite lounge chair.

His arms hung over the sides of the armrests, and for a while Bill was content to seethe and stare into the dark room. Stupid Sixer. Stupid portal – no wait, _brilliant_ portal, stupid human. Stanford Pines. Bill was beginning to calm down. He lifted his left arm, examining the burn once more. It didn’t even look bad; just a bright, shiny red patch of skin, vaguely rectangular in shape. As if in response, a dull throb of _hot, searing, burning_ slipped out, and his body shivered.

Huh. Shivered. 

The demon had been so distracted by his own emotional reaction that most of the minutiae of the actual physical response had been lost to him. He hovered his right hand above the raw flesh, feeling heat radiate off. He placed his fingers against the undamaged flesh bordering the burn, steadily adding pressure, and felt his heartrate quicken as the action pulled at the tight skin. Easing up, he ghosted his fingers gently across his skin, barely brushing along the surface, and ran them over the edges of the wound. 

Bill sucked in a gasp of air at the sensation, shifting his hips, suddenly uncomfortable in the chair. He repeated the action again and again, fingers tantalizingly light against the sensitive flesh. The feeling was like electricity, sending shudders wracking through his body. On the next graze, he turned his fingers to let his nails rake along the enflamed skin, and he nearly had to stifle a moan. Panting, he paused in his ministrations, pulling his hand away and traveling southward to where Ford’s cock was hard, straining against his pants.

He licked his lips, running his fingers up and down the clothed length. Ford would disapprove. Ford wouldn’t stop him. He pressed the flushed head against his stomach, hissing at the delicious contact. And what Ford didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Bill popped the button of his pants open with a deft flick of his thumb and spread his thighs. There was already a damp spot on the boxer briefs where the tip of his cock was steadily leaking precum.

It was an awkward position but he made do, shuffling to pull Ford’s dick out. The demon let out a shaky breath as he fisted the hot flesh, dragging his hand up and down and back up, thumbing at his slit. His toes curled in his boots. He let go, brought his hand back to his injury and scratched down the center, startling himself when his hips jerked forward and a groan slipped out of his mouth.

Bill tossed his head back, hitting the back of the chair with a muffled thud. His eyes slid closed and he slipped two fingers into his mouth, sucking and laving at the digits with his tongue. He turned his injured arm down to face the armrest, pressing and rubbing his wound against it as he glided his fingers in and out, hips giving aborted thrusts in a bid for stimulation. Bill pulled his fingers out, ignoring the string of saliva stretching between them and his lips, and licked down the center of his palm before bringing his hand back down to his straining cock, wrapping the now slicked appendage around himself.

Hot, hot, everything was hot. His face was flushed and heat pooled low in his belly as he fucked his own hand. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he found himself letting out stuttering, breathy moans. His entire body felt taunt and blisteringly hot, and his injured arm felt like it was engulfed in flame itself, a bright cacophony of searing, scorching, stinging, biting _pain_. 

His right hand still moving, frantically jerking up and down, Bill yanked his left arm off the armrest, pulled it up to face. He licked against his own flesh, moaning loudly, traced patterns against the raw and burning skin. Close, he was so close. His teeth grazed against the overly sensitive wound, igniting sparks behind his eyes. He bit down in the middle of it, where it _burned_ deepest, teeth sinking into tight, _hot_ flesh, and his brain short circuited. Bill came all over his hand with a cry muffled against his arm, wringing his orgasm out over and over until his body sagged, utterly spent.

For a few long moments, the effort it would take to move any of his now limp muscles felt insurmountable. Or at the very least, not worth surmounting. There was something pleasant about drifting, and Bill didn’t want to break the sensation by moving even one fraction of an inch. All the tight points of pressure along his spine seemed to have loosened, and Bill could only sporadically think _Ford should probably do this more often_. His breathing steadied, deepening. He could feel his heart gradually stop racing, slow to a dull, rhythmic thumping that echoed in his ears.

Eventually, discomfort began to set in as well. His right hand, which had fallen away from his crotch, was sticky, covered in the milky pearlescence of Ford’s release. Some streaks of it had also arced up to stain Sixer’s shirt. Whoops. Absentmindedly, he rubbed the six-fingered hand against the rough material of his jeans, twisting his fingers to clean off as much of the goop as he could. What he couldn’t brush off, he brought up to his mouth and licked clean. The exhaustion in Ford’s body seemed to have doubled or tripled, making his movement sluggish and sloppy. 

Bill had half a mind to leave Ford’s body right where it lie, and let the man deal with it when he had to join the waking world again. It would serve him right, for putting Bill in this situation to begin with. But the demon had to admit, his actions had been self-indulgent, even for his standards, and as funny as the idea of Sixer waking up to this mess was, he’d prefer the human not know about this. If he didn’t already. 

The demon stood, tucked himself back into his pants rather carelessly, and headed up the stairs to Sixer’s bedroom. There was still no sign of his pal’s incorporeal self anyway, and he if had more brain power to devote to the matter he would wonder what exactly the man was getting up to. As it was, being in this body felt like it was draining him, and he hardly had the mental capacity to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Every few steps his arm would throb in a decidedly distracting manner, begging him to run a finger or nail against it.

Trying to dissuade himself from indulging his urges, Bill attempted to picture the face Ford would make if he’d seen what Bill had done in his body. The scandalized expression his mind conjured up only made him want to give into the impulse more, to see what Sixer would do when he inevitably came looking for the demon and his body. Pathetic. The hormone soup he found himself mired in must be affecting him more than he’d wagered.

Upon reaching Ford’s bedroom – decorated in an eclectic mix of mathematics and science fiction – Bill immediately began peeling off the layers of his clothing, eyes narrowing in distaste. When had he _sweat_ so much? Sixer’s dick was half hard again. Bill blamed this on him. He steadfastly ignored it, ignored everything in favor of flopping face first onto the bed. His limbs flailed briefly, covering about a third of Stanford’s body with a blanket before the demon practically fled from the physical world, his triangular form emerging from the now unconscious man.

Well! That was certainly something. Bill was already feeling more clearheaded. Using the mental equivalent of a butterfly net, the demon reached out and scooped up Ford’s consciousness – the man was disturbingly close-by – and dragged them both to the mindscape.


End file.
